


Tyrajin Week - 2020

by Dragomir



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Card Games, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Dreams, Fluff, Haircuts, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Torture, Introspection, M/M, Magic, Mild Trust Kink, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Promises, Rings, Slavery, Sunburn, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 12:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24969601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragomir/pseuds/Dragomir
Summary: Seven days, seven Tyrajin prompts! Fluff, angst, and Loa know what else. But mostly: The boys.
Relationships: Tyrathan Khort/Vol'jin
Comments: 22
Kudos: 49





	1. Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of domestic fluff, set sometime during their stay at the Shadopan monastery.
> 
> This chapter is for the wonderful Cheeziswin, who wanted some domestic haircutting, with Tyrathan helping Vol'jin back to his old self.

Vol’jin snarled in annoyance, staring at his reflection in the mirror. The scars on his throat, ear, and across his chest stood out against his fur, almost mocking him with their refusal to fade. He was certain, at this point, that Bwonsamdi was just laughing at him from the Other Side, waiting for him to give up and succumb to the Loa’s embrace.

Well, Bwonsamdi was just going to be disappointed.

That, and Vol’jin was loathe to meet his Loa looking….somewhat dishevelled.

His hair was, put simply, a mess. None of the monks seemed to know or even really care about shaving, and his hair had grown back in, leaving him with a frazzled-looking mop of red hair instead of a sleek mohawk running almost down his back. The dryness of the air in the temple hadn’t done him any favors either, and he just wasn’t feeling...himself. Like a snake trying to shed its skin, and not knowing  _ how _ , exactly, it was supposed to do that.

He sighed and dropped the razor, hands shaking with minute tremors as he let it fall to the tabletop. After a few moments staring at it, still unsure why the whole thing bothered him to such a great degree, he buried his face in his hands and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyesockets until stars popped in his vision. He released the pressure, feeling a headache coming on if he kept pressing. A headache would  _ not _ make his day any better. And he still couldn’t hold the razor to shave his head back into some semblance of order.

The door creaked open and Vol’jin heaved a groan, opening his eyes so he could see who’d come into his room in the mirror. The white-haired human he’d been paired with - Tyrathan - had entered the room, leaning heavily on his cane and toting a jihui board under the other arm. He raised an eyebrow at Vol’jin’s position. Vol’jin resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at the human. He wasn’t a toddler, no matter how petulant he was currently feeling.

“Have I interrupted something?” Tyrathan asked, limping across the room to the low table Vol’jin sat at. A lock of hair swung free of the bun he’d pulled his hair back into, brushing over his cheek. Vol’jin half-lifted a hand to tuck it back behind the man’s ear, and let it drop again with a sigh. His fingers shook and he  _ knew _ the human had seen it.

It was oddly embarrassing.

“...Eh.” Vol’jin sucked on his lower lip, knowing Tyrathan could see the razor he’d abandoned and the few strands of red hair clinging to the blade’s edge.

“Ah.” Tyrathan’s voice held a very distinctive note and Vol’jin wondered if he could convince the floor to swallow him before the human could start to pity him. “It’s a bit hard to shave your own head. Do you want some help?”

Vol’jin grunted sourly, gesturing at the razor. “Do what you will, manthing.” His pride wouldn’t allow him to  _ beg _ for help cutting his hair or styling it. He’d just... _ let _ ...the human do what he wanted.

The human eased himself down to the floor with a soft groan, cane clattering gently against the stone floor as he let go of it. “Just the sides, or do you want it all gone?” he asked, picking up the shaving tools Vol’jin hadn’t know what to do with.

“...Hm.” Vol’jin sucked on his lower lip before shrugging one shoulder. “The sides, manthing.”

Tyrathan smiled, not judging or pitying, and clipped away long locks of frizzy red hair, letting them fall to the ground around Vol’jin’s hips. “Next time it gets this bad, cut it short first,” he said, filling the silence as he clipped the sides down to stubble. Vol’jin nodded absentmindedly, watching what the human did in the mirror. “This will be a bit cold,” he added, mixing something in a bowl with a whisk. It occurred to Vol’jin, then, that he had been given Tyrathan’s kit - possibly even at the human’s request. Which meant…

Oh, Bwonsamdi, just take him now,  _ please _ .

But his hair was back in the shape and style he preferred. The human had done an  _ excellent _ job. He grinned around his tusks, expression teasing.

“If you ever need a new career,” he chortled, “I can hire you as a barber.”

Tyrathan rolled his eyes, but smiled.


	2. Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrathan and Vol'jin share a patch of sunlight after the Siege of Orgrimmar, and talk. (Minor tw for mentions of a bad sunburn.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more domestic fluff, post Siege of Orgrimmar.

Tyrathan leaned back on his arms, face tilted up towards the sky. It was warm today - warmer than normal, but without the same oppressive dampness of a Stormwind summer. He sighed, vision hazed red from the sun beating down on his face. It was peaceful here. Quiet enough.

Hard to imagine that only a week ago, there had been a pitched battle in the streets.

He stirred from his reverie at footsteps approaching his spot on the rocks, sighing as he mentally flipped through his collection of noted footsteps. Not someone from the Alliance, at least - everyone wore shoes, and the Draenei had hoofplates like a warhorse. (He still didn’t understand that, but to each their own, he supposed.) One of the Horde, then. Probably wondering why he’d been given an invitation to stay in Orgrimmar to rest. More accurately, why he’d accepted the invitation to stay and recuperate that had been extended to everyone. A few of the adventurers had stayed, talking happily with friends in the Horde and exploring new styles of cooking.

Ji Firepaw and Aysa Cloudsinger were apparently being very loud in their tent.

A body thumped down next to his and Tyrathan opened his eyes with a sigh, looking to see who’d come to join him in his patch of sunlight. His long-suffering expression turned immediately to a smile as he realized Vol’jin, now the warchief of the Horde, had found him.

“Pull up a rock,” Tyrathan said, lying back down against the boulder that had made for quite a nice backrest. “Plenty of sunlight to go around.” He closed his eyes again, folding his hands over his belly. Vol’jin hummed, leaning back against the rock Tyrathan had claimed for himself.

“Not much time for sunning now,” Vol’jin rumbled, stretching. The fur on his arms brushed against Tyrathan’s cheek, warmed by the sun beating down on the plateau. “...Ya gonna look like a cooked lobster pretty soon,” the troll added.

Tyrathan shrugged. “You can rub aloe on the burn for me,” he grinned. After a second he groaned and slapped a hand over his face. “Fuck.” He opened one eye. “You’re the Warchief. I should be more-”

Vol’jin pressed a finger to Tyrathan’s lips. “Shush, manthing.” He grinned, lips curling around his tusks. “Vanira got something better than aloe. ….Ya gonna need it, because that gonna be a bad burn.”

“...You may be right,” Tyrathan sighed. “Ah well. I’ve got you to rub aloe on me, at least.” He grinned, and was rewarded with a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vol'jin was right: Tyrathan did end up looking like a well-cooked lobster. Vanira provided an ointment for the burns, and managed not to laugh until she was out of bowshot range.


	3. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vol'jin learns about a human custom, and something about Tyrathan as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing all of these at like 10pm, with absolutely zero planning. It's more fun that way, I swear.... XD (I kid. Someday, I should actually plan something.)

Vol’jin stared at the loop of metal nestled in his palm, then looked up at Tyrathan, whose face was oddly flushed. “What this be, manthing?” he asked, picking the loop up so he could squint at it. It was roughly the right size to slip around one finger or his thumb and stay there, and while it lacked any sophistication or decoration that would make it a courting gift, it still felt...significant. Not that he’d be putting it on until he knew what it was, of course, but it still felt significant.

“Uh...well...” Tyrathan rubbed the back of his neck, hair swaying with the motion. He’d stopped wearing it in the Pandaren style Vol’jin had become so used to, cutting it down so it brushed his shoulders in a style favored by human soldiers. It was one of the first things he’d done upon deciding he would return to his home in the Alliance lands to either work things out with his wife or cut all ties to his old life. Vol’jin hated how sad his human looked with his hair cropped so short. “Well….it’s a promise. From me.” He plucked the loop out of Vol’jin’s grasp and tilted the band so he could point out something inscribed on the inside.

It was human script and some very crude Zandali, which Vol’jin supposed meant the same as the human script next to it. He’d never learned Common - it hadn’t seemed important - but he could make a guess. As bad as his Common was, he was certain it was better than Tyrathan’s Zandali writing.

But it said “Back home, to you.” More or less. The words were wrong for the context Tyrathan was attempting to impart, but the thought was what mattered with something like this.

“Back to me, eh, manthing?” Vol’jin settled for teasing, chest warm with an overabundance of fondness for the human. He held the ring out. “Don’t humans put this on ya mates?”

Tyrathan’s face turned as crimson as a Horde vanguard tabard, making Vol’jin chortle loudly, several birds startling into the air with cries of alarm at the noise. The human grabbed the ring - it might as well have been one of those engagement rings Vol’jin had heard Go’el speak of years ago - and held it out.

“It’s a promise, not an engagement,” Tyrathan muttered, cheeks still brilliant red. “But, yes. If…if I ever  _ did _ decide to leave, I would always return to you.”

Vol’jin smiled gently, letting Tyrathan slide the ring onto his finger. “Back home to me, manthing.”

It wouldn’t be the last time he saw Tyrathan. He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They did see each other again, leading up to the Broken Shore. (Tyrathan was totally at Grommash Hold in the aftermath of the Broken Shore. He was just...off screen. Obviously.)


	4. Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrosh leaves a present for Vol'jin at the siege of Orgrimmar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags, kids.

Vol’jin stared uneasily at the spot where Garrosh had fallen. The  _ former _ warchief had laughed, wheezing against broken ribs and the after-effects of the sha, asking if Vol’jin was going to thank him for the gift left in his new quarters. Taran Zhu’s monks had clapped the orc in irons and dragged him off through a hastily-summoned portal before he could explain - not that Vol’jin blamed them - and Taran Zhu had stepped through last, a troubled look on his aged face.

The troll bit the side of his thumb, chewing absentmindedly as he tried to discern just  _ what _ the tyrant meant by gift. There were so many things it could be - Master Gadrin and Vanira’s heads. Rokhan’s head. The flayed skins of Darkspear trolls stretched on frames to dry. Something worse than anything his mind could conjure - he was sure the former warchief was depraved enough to come up with something that could give even the most hardened warrior or seasoned Shadowhunter nightmares for a good, long time. Garrosh had many weaknesses, but inventive punishments had not been one of them.

He picked his glaive up with a groan, straightening and bending until all the vertebrae in his spine popped. He was going to be sore in the morning, and not for the first time, he missed the monastery and the human he’d befriended there. But Tyrathan was no doubt in the Eastern Kingdoms, reuniting with his loving and no-doubt surprised wife and at least two children he obviously doted on. Vol’jin shook his head with a fond snort. He’d put one of his new spies on keeping an eye on the human and his family - after he’d taken care of any still loyal to Garrosh above the Horde’s interests. He didn’t want to put his human in any danger, or at least not more danger than Tyrathan could handle. Maybe the Loa would grant him some luck, and Tyrathan’s wife would have set him aside in favor of that other human, Morelan Vanyst. He wasn’t sure  _ why _ anyone would set aside a capable hunter and warrior like Tyrathan, but humans were all…. _ interesting _ ...like that.

The path to the warchief’s quarters was familiar to him, from long nights spent conversing there with Thr- with Go’el, when he had been warchief, discussing anything that came to the insomniac’s mind. Not paperwork, thankfully. (Go’el had been allergic to it, almost, and had only done it when forced, preferring to delegate it to someone more interested and leading instead by example. ...Most of the time.) He wondered what Garrosh had done to the rooms, what changes he would have to undo. What kind of decorations he’d have to get rid of.

Well, nothing a few fetishes and a few guardian totems couldn’t fix, he supposed, pushing the door open.

He froze, feeling like he’d been kicked by a kodo.

There, kneeling on a mat in the center of the main room, was Tyrathan Khort, head bowed under the weight of a heavy iron collar. The human looked up, pale eyes almost dead with the lack of emotion he showed. Vol’jin felt a cold hand grip his heart, and wondered if Bwonsamdi was just waiting to stake his claim so soon.

“Is my Master returning?” the human asked, voice soft, Zandali accented with the softly-rolling burr of a Stranglethorn troll.

Garrosh’s death would not be slow enough, Vol’jin thought, for everything he had visited on Tyrathan Khort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vol'jin almost got banned from the Temple of the White Tiger six times on the first day of Garrosh's trial. Taran Zhu only stopped him because of propriety (and only barely).


	5. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of introspection during Garrosh's trial for Tyrathan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the last chapter was fun to write. And yes, I figure I might as well make it up a little bit before I do anything else to Tyrathan or Vol'jin....

Tyrathan paused at the edge of the bridge separating the pavilions the Horde and Alliance were in at Hellscream’s trial. In an effort to keep the peace, Taran Zhu had separated the factions and no one was allowed to cross the bridge between them. Not even he was allowed across the bridge, and at least the master of the Shadopan had been apologetic. (He was, at least, allowed access to the training grounds and weapons therein, unlike others at the temple. He’d received suspicious looks from several Alliance delegates over the favor shown to him, but had ignored it.)

He could, theoretically, run across the bridge fast enough to make it to the Horde pavilion before anyone in the Shadopan caught up to him - if the Horde didn’t decide he was an opportunistic assassin willing to break the peace to assassinate someone.

The hunter sighed and shook his head, raising his hand to a thin chain around his neck. There were more places than the temple to meet with members of the Horde. This was just the most convenient.

Tyrathan let the locket containing a single strand of red hair fall back under his tunic and turned towards another pavilion - this one open on all sides to the elements - and shoved his hands in his pockets as he meandered towards it. In the interests of relaxation and attempts to entice adventurers into something that didn’t involve looting, killing, and getting into things they shouldn’t be touching, some of the monks from other orders had set up board games and were teaching interested passers-by how to play. Jihui featured prominently.

He allowed himself to be pulled over to a board by a member of the Golden Lotus upon his arrival, sparing a single longing thought for games of Jihui months ago with a certain troll, and cast his mind away. Taran Zhu had trusted him not to do anything stupid all those months ago and had asked him to join the caretaking team for the now-warchief. Vol’jin had eventually returned the favor.

It still hurt, to be so close to Vol’jin and not be able to say anything. But he’d promised Taran Zhu he wouldn’t do anything stupid, and breaking the old pandaren’s trust wasn’t something he was willing to do. Not yet, anyways. Well. He always had Jihui. And his memories of Vol’jin. The monk explained the rules to him and he nodded along vaguely, thinking of a certain troll attempting to shake the canister of pieces one-handed, barely hiding the grimace of pain as he moved. But he had grimaced in pain, showing a surprising amount of trust in an admitted troll hunter. Anyone else would have tried to use it as an opening. Vol’jin, though… Vol’jin had trusted him. Not completely, and not for a while yet, but the troll had trusted him.

They’d become fast friends and almost more after that first game of Jihui, sharing chores as Vol’jin regained his strength and Tyrathan recovered from a near-fatal encounter with a blizzard. They’d saved each others’ lives more than once. They’d saved each other on the Isle of Thunder, and then during the Zandalari siege on the temple. Vol’jin had cared enough to intervene on his behalf with the Loa of Death.

Tyrathan couldn’t recall that level of trust or devotion from  _ anyone _ in his life. Even Lord Morelan hadn’t shown him that kind of reciprocal trust, and he’d served the man’s family almost since he could hold a bow, as his own father had, and his grandfather, and… That was a supremely depressing realization to have, really, to know that a troll - a chieftain, who should have wanted him dead at every turn - trusted him to watch his back, had returned the favor on so many occasions.

If things were different… If the Horde and Alliance could leave this trial as friends - or at least as wary allies, with no further bloodshed on either side - then perhaps he could pursue that trust further. Would Vol’jin even want to?

“And now,” the Golden Lotus monk said, “you shake the canister and get your first piece.” Tyrathan took the canister and shook it a few times before tipping it over to let a piece fall out.

The piece that fell out, face up, was a fireship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyrathan took the piece as a sign from the Light - or possibly Bwonsamdi, he never did figure that one out - and did eventually manage to meet with Vol'jin. (He's still not going to forgive Wrathion anytime soon, even if he did get the meeting he wanted out of the whole deal.)


	6. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams are often better than the reality they help you escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance. This one is sad. (And I'm drunk. I'm sorry.)

Tyrathan groaned and shoved his head under a pillow as morning light spilled into the room, far too bright for such an hour. Someone laughed near his head and Tyrathan pulled the pillow further over his head.

“T’early,” he grumbled, patting around his partner’s side of the bed. He grabbed their wrist and smiled, knowing the expression couldn’t be seen. “Bed? ...mmm...stay.” Tyrathan grumbled in displeasure as the pillow was pulled away, allowing him to see Vol’jin looking down at him with an indescribably fond expression on his face. This early in the morning, his hair was out of its usual greased-up mohawk, falling in disarray over his face and down his back. He looked vulnerable at this time of morning, before he assumed the mantle of Warchief once more - a mask he didn’t drop again until well after the sun had set once more.

As far as Tyrathan knew, he was the only one outside of the Darkspear who had ever seen Vol’jin this vulnerable.

“Late enough, manthing,” Vol’jin replied, voice light and easy. He put the pillow back down and pushed a lock of hair back behind Tyrathan’s ear, smiling gently as he lowered himself back to the mattress. “Ya go back ta sleep, Tyrathan.”

Tyrathan smiled blearily, capturing Vol’jin’s hand and pulling it against his chest. “Mmm. Stay with me. The Horde can wait.”

Vol’jin scraped his fingers gently down Tyrathan’s cheek, expression fond again. “Da Horde can’t wait.” He tapped two fingers on Tyrathan’s forehead. “Ya gotta wake up now. Da Alliance can’t wait either.”

  
  


Tyrathan awoke with a sigh, wiping his cheeks with one hand. Ah. No, the Alliance couldn’t wait, could it? And neither could reality, no matter how pleasant the dream. He pushed himself up with a groan, staring at the canvas walls of his tent. Reality took precedence over the pleasant escape of dreams, after all. The Unseen Path waited for no one.

He pulled himself upright and wondered how long it would be before he could sneak off to sleep again, back to the escape of a much better world in his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. At least Tyrathan has his dreams...?


	7. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrathan is far more dexterous than Vol'jin gave him credit for. Not, of course, that he'll complain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some domestic fluff to make up for the last two chapters. It's tooth-rotting. (Takes place sometime after the attack on the monastery, but before the boys part ways.)

Vol’jin leaned against a wall, sucking the juice from an overripe piece of fruit as he watched his human sit in a half-circle of excited Pandaren cubs. He had set up a small crate and was apparently showing them something that had them absolutely  _ fascinated _ . Every so often, they cheered or started laughing. Whatever Tyrathan was doing, it was good - the cubs were distracted from the destruction of their home, and Tyrathan was not so bothered by the fighting and constant running from the Zandalari. He bit into the fruit and decided it was probably a mango, not a peach.

He’d have to get Tyrathan some of the peaches grown in the Jade Forest once this was all over. Perhaps, if they didn’t part ways too quickly, they could go visit some of the other temples on their way out of Pandaria… Not the Jade Serpent’s temple, though. Tyrathan was still susceptible to the Sha there, even if the area  _ had _ been cleaned.

But Chi-ji’s temple in the Krasarang Wilds would be perfect. ...And it would be close to their respective encampments in the Wilds.

One day closer to losing his human.

Vol’jin sighed and rubbed his hand over his face, regretting it almost immediately as the sticky sugars coated his face. He’d be eaten alive by bugs later. Tyrathan was going to laugh at him for that. He smiled wryly, shaking his head. Worse things could happen than some harmless bugbites.

He pushed himself off the wall and sauntered over to Tyrathan’s seat, intent on figuring out just what his human was doing to entertain the cubs. Maybe he’d be entertained as well…

Tyrathan was using a deck of cards to some effect, and Vol’jin took a moment to appreciate the dexterity in his human’s fingers as he manipulated the deck, pulling out seemingly random cards. Every so often, he’d pull a card out from behind one of the cubs’ ears, and Vol’jin found himself trying to figure out just  _ how _ Tyrathan was doing that. Not magic - he would have sensed that by this point - and that level of dexterity took  _ years _ to perfect.

...Well, hunting could get boring. He supposed there were worse things to do than practice some simple card tricks while waiting for one’s prey to appear.

“Come to watch, Vol’jin?” Tyrathan asked, tilting his head back so he could look at the troll. Vol’jin grinned, eyes crinkling.

“Ya, manthing.” He tugged on a stubborn lock of hair flopping into Tyrathan’s eyes and smiled. “Come ta see ya doing magic for the cubs.” He flopped down on the ground next to the hunter, grinning as the cubs started giggling behind their paws. Tyrathan flushed darkly, looking away as he shuffled the cards with much less finesse than before.

Vol’jin laughed softly, and waited for Tyrathan to recover his composure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vol'jin dragged Tyrathan off a little while later to find out just *how* dexterous his fingers were. Neither part was disappointed, putting it mildly.

**Author's Note:**

> Tyrathan did seriously consider quitting his job with the Alliance and becoming Vol'jin's barber several times prior to the Legion's invasion, if only for the looks on peoples' faces if he'd announced his career change.


End file.
